


The Hermit

by isquinnabel



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Lost
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 17:41:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12194643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isquinnabel/pseuds/isquinnabel
Summary: While fleeing his uncle’s castle, Caspian encounters a bad storm. When his horse bolts, he hits his head and wakes in an unexpected location.





	The Hermit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



> Happy crossovering, aurilly!
> 
> Italicised text at the beginning is from Prince Caspian.

_The wind became a tempest, the woods roared and creaked all round them. There came a crash. A tree fell right across the road just behind him. “Quiet, Destrier, quiet!” said Caspian, patting his horse’s neck; but he was trembling himself and knew that he had escaped death by an inch. Lightning flashed and a great crack of thunder seemed to break the sky in two just overhead. Destrier bolted in good earnest. Caspian was a good rider, but he had not the strength to hold him back. He kept his seat, but he knew that his life hung by a thread during the wild career that followed. Tree after tree rose up before them and was only just avoided. Then, almost too suddenly to hurt (and yet it did hurt him too) something struck Caspian on the forehead and he knew no more._

\---

When he came to himself, he was lying on a bunk of some sort with bruised limbs and a bad headache. The room had an odd sort of light, but before he had time to take any of it in, a man appeared by his side.

The man’s shoulder-length hair was wild and rumpled, and he stared at Caspian with wide eyes. Caspian was a little alarmed, and thought it best not to stare back. If this man was allied with Miraz, it would not do to antagonise him. In fact, Caspian realised, this was quite a dangerous situation. This man had very likely recognised him already.

“Are you… him?” the man whispered.

Caspian was careful to avoid eye contact. “Of whom are you speaking?”  
The man leaned forward, with a tight grip on the bunk above Caspian. “What did one snowman say to the other?”

This was terribly strange. After a moment’s hesitation, Caspian turned his head and looked directly into the man’s face. Mysterious though he was, he seemed kind enough. He was looking at Caspian with a mixture of uncertainty and great hope, which faded into disappointment as soon as Caspian replied.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know.”

The man gave a deep sigh. He handed Caspian something cold. “For your head, brother.”

\---

Once his headache had subsided a little, Caspian ate and drank the victuals provided. He was about to ask after poor old Destrier when an odd noise startled him. Caspian did not quite have the words to describe this noise. It was high pitched, almost like a bird, although it was nothing like any birdcall Caspian had ever learned. There was an unnatural uniformity to it – its pitch, its volume, its cyclical repetition. He didn’t like it one bit.

“What devilry is this?” he asked, wincing at each iteration.

The man, however, had already left. With some trepidation, Caspian followed him. There was all manner of unusual items in this place, all of which piqued Caspian’s curiosity, but nothing could have prepared him for the man’s destination – a domed room, full of machinery unlike anything Caspian had ever seen before. He didn’t even have the words to describe it all, but if he had tried, the words “grey” and “box-like” would have made multiple appearances. It was, while fascinating, quite an unfriendly room. The man sat in the middle of it all, utterly unconcerned, doing something to one of the boxes. 

“What are you doing?”

As soon as Caspian finished asking, a rattling sound made him start. To his right, a display of numbers flipped itself over until it read _108_. The man sighed.

"Saving the world.”

\---

“What’s your name, brother?”

Caspian had an honest nature, and very nearly gave the man his real name. Luckily, he caught himself just in time.  
“Colveth.” He held out his right hand, and for a moment the man seemed to not know what to do with it. But when he finally shook Caspian’s hand, there was a noticeable shift in his demeanour. He didn’t quite manage a smile, but a little warmth found its way into his voice.  
“I’m Desmond.”  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Desmond.”  
“Aye… you too, Colveth. You too.”

Caspian’s head was still a little sore. He eased himself slowly into a chair, very aware that Desmond was watching him with great interest.

“How’d you get here, then?”  
“I rode my horse.”  
Desmond gave an odd sort of laugh.  
“I meant, how’d you and your horse get here? To the island?”  
“Er… island?”  
For a moment, Desmond looked a little taken aback. He kneeled in front of Caspian, carefully inspecting his eyes.  
“How’s your head?”  
“A little sore.”  
“What do you remember about last night?”  
“I remember…” Caspian swallowed. “I remember there was a storm. And Destrier was afraid of the thunder, and bolted. Have you seen Destrier? My horse?”  
Desmond shook his head. “You were out cold on the ground when I found you. No horse. Sorry, brother.”  
Caspian sighed. Destrier’s company had been awfully comforting. But it was far too dangerous to hunt for him now. At this stage, he was probably halfway back to his home. Caspian could not risk returning to Miraz’s castle.  
“Where are you from?”  
“Beruna,” answered Caspian, a little too quickly. Caspian had little practice in the art of deception, and he knew he could never pass as a village boy. Colveth was a common name amongst the town merchants. Perhaps he could weave a believable history as one of their sons.  
“And where’s that?”  
Caspian stared. “Where’s Beruna?”  
“Aye. Where’s Beruna?”  
“It’s a town on the Great River. You know – where the River Rush branches off.”  
“And how did you get here from Beruna?”  
“I rode, of course.”  
“You rode.”  
“Yes.”  
“From Beruna.”  
“Yes.”  
“You rode here from your _town_ , Beruna.”  
“ _Yes_ ,” said Caspian, starting to feel a bit cross.  
Desmond raked his fingers through his hair.  
“Colveth, are you telling me… is Beruna on this island?”  
Caspian frowned.  
“What island?”

\---

“This can’t possibly be the right place.”  
“This is where I found you,” insisted Desmond. “Which way is it? Where’s your town?”  
“These aren’t the right sorts of trees. I’ve never seen trees like these in my life! And I was on the road when Destrier bolted, but I don’t see a road near here at all.”  
“Colveth! _Where is your town?_ ”  
“I don’t know!”

The reality of this last statement settled uncomfortably in Caspian’s stomach. He hadn’t the faintest idea where he was. It wasn’t just the trees – the cool Narnian air had been replaced by a heavy sort of warmth, and the hazy blue of Archenland’s mountains was no more. Jagged peaks stood in their stead, entirely covered in bright green foliage.

“I don’t know where I am.”

\---

Caspian had nowhere to go and Desmond, it transpired, hadn’t even heard of Archenland. Caspian knew that hermits, while eccentric, were learned men, and he was surprised at Desmond’s utter lack of geographic knowledge. Still, he decided to make the best of things. This place was excellent shelter, there was plenty of food and water, and Desmond proved to be good company. Besides, there was something terribly fascinating about this place.

“Why these numbers?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I mean, these numbers are saving the world. That’s a noble task. Surely they have some special properties?”

Desmond looked rather bewildered, which seemed to happen a lot when Caspian asked questions. 

“They’re just numbers, Col. Like typing in a password.”  
Desmond returned to the kitchen. Caspian sat on the floor of the numbers room, and watched another minute tick over.  
“Just numbers,” he murmured. He doubted that very much. Doctor Cornelius had taught him the very basics of numerology, and that was enough to convince him that numbers had their own kind of powerful magic. But Caspian’s knowledge of the subject was so sparse, he hardly knew where to start. For one thing, he didn’t quite understand where the line was drawn between numerology and regular mathematics. He knew that the numbers in the sequence added to one hundred and eight – the number of minutes in the countdown – but he didn’t know if this held any particular significance. His gut told him that it did, but that wasn’t enough. He didn’t have the magical education to back it up.

There were still ninety-seven minutes to go, so Caspian clambered to his feet and headed for the bookcase. Perhaps there was some textbook or other that would help him make sense of this. But just as he’d begun to flip through a possible candidate – a book entitled _Rainbow Six_ , written by a Tom Clancy – Desmond interrupted his train of thought.

“You said your town is on a river, yeah?”  
Caspian glanced up.  
“Yes. The Great River – you know, the large river that flows through Narnia.”  
“And you said it’s a market town?”  
“Yes, of course. People come from all over to trade in Beruna.”  
“But…” Desmond squeezed his eyes closed, as though he were thinking very hard. “Who could you possibly be trading with?”  
“Archenlanders and Calormenes, mostly.”  
“And those towns – they’re on this island, too?”  
“No,” Caspian replied patiently. “Like I said before, I’m not from an island. My people are very uncomfortable with the sea. And forests, for that matter. We don’t live on any island.”  
“Colveth,” said Desmond. “You do realise we’re on an island? Right now? This is an island.”  
“Are you certain?”  
“Of course I am!”  
“Have you walked the entire perimeter? Do you know, with absolute certainty, that this is an island?”  
This time, Desmond did not reply.  
“Desmond, I don’t live on an island. I can promise you that. Beruna is only a day’s ride from here. Either I’ve been magically transported to some other land, or this place isn’t an island. It’s part of a larger piece of land.”

Desmond sank onto a kitchen chair, seemingly lost in thought. Caspian turned back to the bookshelf, and a new source of unease began to gnaw at him. What if he had indeed been transported to another world? This place was so very different from Narnia. And it had happened before – the High King Peter and his brother and sisters had been called out of another world. Who was to say the same thing hadn’t happened to Caspian himself?

“If you’re so sure Beruna is nearby,” said Desmond, “why aren’t you looking for it? The beach is right over there, brother. Look for the mouth of your Great River.”  
Caspian slid _Rainbow Six_ back onto the bookcase. It wasn’t of any use.  
“Because I’ve left,” he replied. “And I don’t expect to be welcomed back.”

\---

“Desmond, what do you know about the Dharma Initiative?”

Caspian had spent all morning alone in the numbers room, piecing together his snippets of information and indulging himself in wild conjecture. The numbers, the countdown, saving the world, how on earth he had come to be here… these questions needed answering. The Dharma Initiative was the only place he could think of that might be able to help him. Perhaps they even knew a few things about Old Narnia. But as he slid into his seat at the table, he noticed the almost-empty bottle and the heavy smell of drink in the air.

“Same as you,” mumbled Desmond. “Just what’s in that film.”  
Caspian’s eyes lit up. There was nothing new to learn from the film, but the machine itself enthralled him.  
“Can we watch it again? Er… are you in any state to set up the… the machine?”  
“The projector,” corrected Desmond, who took another swig from the bottle. “Bloody hell, Col. You’re making me feel old.”

Caspian hadn’t much experience with intoxicated men, and wasn’t quite sure what to say. It seemed rude to just leave him, so he sat quietly at the table. Before long, Desmond flashed a sleepy grin at him. 

“Guess what I nearly did this morning.”  
“What?”  
“Left.”  
“Left? To go where?”  
Desmond laughed. “Beruna.”  
“You… my Beruna?”  
“’Course your Beruna. How many Berunas are there on this island? Or, well. Alleged island.” Desmond groaned. “I dunno what’s worse, Col. If this place turns out to be some remote bloody peninsula… how stupid can one person be, you know?”

The bottle was empty. Caspian watched as Desmond idly began to tear off the label.  
“Why didn’t you go?”  
“Haven’t you heard?” Desmond winked. “I’m a coward.”  
Caspian narrowed his eyes. He doubted very much that that was the reason. “Oh?”  
“Aye. Gotta start embracing it. Might start sleeping in the cupboard, all curled up in the foetal position.”  
“What would have happened if you’d left?”  
“Might’ve actually found Beruna.”  
“No, I mean what bad things. What might have happened?”  
“Well. You’d be all alone.”  
“Yes, I would.”  
“Just leaving you high and dry like that, bit rough for you. All alone. It’s hard with one person. Gotta keep pushing that button. World, end, big kaboom. Bad.”  
“Well, there you go.”  
“Sorry?”  
“Those are very sound reasons for not leaving. You cared about your job, and you cared about me. That’s not cowardly at all.”  
Desmond snorted. “If you say so.”

The alarm, as it had a habit of doing, interrupted this conversation. Caspian left to enter the numbers, and when he came back, he sat purposefully on his seat.

“Desmond.”  
“Colveth,” he replied, imitating his serious tone.  
“I think you should leave. You need to look for Beruna.”  
Desmond laughed. “And why is that?”  
“Because you won’t ever stop thinking about it. It’s one thing to hear a lovely story that satisfies you in the moment, but when that lovely story might be real? There is nothing in the world that compares to that feeling. You need to follow it through. You’ve been stuck here for an awfully long time, Desmond. Beruna is dull as anything to me, but for you it’s… it’s hope.”  
Desmond stared.  
“But you’ll be –“  
“I’ll be fine for a couple of weeks,” reassured Caspian. “Beruna isn’t far. Come back after two weeks. Just… don’t bring anyone with you.”  
“I won’t remember this conversation tomorrow,” groaned Desmond. “I need to sleep. But… why can’t I bring anyone back?”

Caspian hesitated. But, if he was going to forget…  
“Because my name’s not really Colveth,” he whispered. “My name is Caspian. I’m the true King of Narnia, and my uncle wants me dead.”

Desmond laughed, harder than Caspian had ever seen him laugh. His face grew bright red, and he nearly fell off his chair. When he calmed down, he sighed, and gave Caspian a wide grin.

“Thanks for that laugh,” he said. “Your Majesty.”


End file.
